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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28993983">when the stones rot</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid'>Ealasaid</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>1917 (Movie 2019), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe: The Old Guard (2020) Crossover, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Temporary Character Death, Tom!Whump, Violence, World War I</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 12:54:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28993983</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Early in January, not two weeks after he arrived at the Front, Lance Corporal Thomas Blake dies.  And then he doesn't.</p><p>[Old Guard/1917 crossover.  Currently reads more as a fusion but will eventually incorporate the Old Guard characters.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joseph Blake &amp; Tom Blake, Lieutenant Richards &amp; William Schofield, Tom Blake &amp; William Schofield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeyourownstory/gifts">writeyourownstory</a>.</li>



    </ul><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title credit goes to @writeyourownstory who is lovely and brilliant and talented and literally the star of this entire fandom!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Early in January, not two weeks after he arrived at the Front, Lance Corporal Thomas Blake dies.  His time in the war is over almost before he knows it.  It is a misplaced shell that does him in, one of the shrapnel ones -- it skips right through their wire and lands and BOOM.  He is dead.</p><p>(Well, not quite.  Tom gets to sit for a good few minutes staring with shock at the way the ground turns to mud beneath him.  He wouldn't have thought frozen earth could thaw and soften so quickly, not even because of a young, dying Englishman -- being hot-blooded isn't supposed to be so literal.)</p><p>--The point is, he dies.  He <em> knows </em> he dies.  Tom knows it, and so do most of his section: they're dead, too, blown to hell along with their trench.  Before his vision leaves him entirely, he manages to spot Grey -- part of Tom's draft, sent out here with him -- goggling at Tom in horror.  Tom's last thought is sheer terror that he is being left to bleed out alone when he sees Grey turn and squirm away.</p><p>Then he wakes up.</p><p>It is frigid and, despite the cloth on his face, he feels so, so cold.  When Tom tries to move, he finds he has been half-sunk in mud and that there is weight on him.  Crawling free is something he does slowly, at first, and then with a burst of horror when he finds he is at the bottom of a heap of shrouded bodies.</p><p>He staggers out and to his feet and fetches up against the wall.  There is hardly anyone out to see it.</p><p>Somehow, Tom moves.  He thinks he recognises where he is and also recognises that he is not at the position he ought to be.  He makes his way back in a daze and finds Grey along with the only other surviving member of the section, Edwards, huddled in a sorely-repaired dugout with five old-timers. </p><p>"Corp'?" says Grey, going ashen when he sees who walks through the doorway.  </p><p>"God on High," whispers Edwards, equally shaken.  He crosses himself.</p><p>Tom can't even bring himself to rebuke Grey for leaving Tom to die -- even turning it into a joke is too close for comfort.  "C'mon boys, it's not that bad," Tom says instead, but he knows that he sounds hollow.  He's a dead man walking.  If that isn't proof of the utter insanity of this war, what is?</p><p>--::o::--</p><p>The new draft sent two weeks later are no better.  That's probably because Grey and Edwards get to them first and warn them all: <em> that Lance Corporal?  Blake?  He shouldn't be alive.  We watched him bleed to death, guts blown out by shrapnel, but there he is . . . </em>  It makes the youngest ones twitch when Tom looks at them cross-eyed, that's for sure.</p><p>After this unfortunate stunt of resurrection, anything he says is cause for the direst of suspicion.  Naught but the worst of insinuations will get the men to do anything.  The problem is that this is never how Tom wanted to do this!  Tom is a friendly fellow, he always has been -- and often, not for his own good, as his brother Joe could attest -- but with his few weeks' (almost a month!) of leading his section, Tom thought he was cutting a good example of an officer (all right, so a non-com, but still) who wasn't a twat.  </p><p>And it isn't as though Tom is responsible for that much, but -- his brother is a <em> Lieutenant, </em> now, and that means something.  Tom can't let him down.  Still, it is very disheartening that no-one will listen to him-- </p><p>(--That's unfair, of course they won't.  Tom should be <em> dead--) </em> </p><p>--no-one will listen to him and that means that, while his section does not embarrass itself, Tom is acutely aware that their success has very little to do with his leadership.  He cannot lead men who want nothing to do with him.  He is even more useless than the greenest Private, newly-come to France.  </p><p>--::o::--</p><p>Shortly before the end of March, there is another new draft.  They haven't had any since the beginning of February and, while it isn't precisely welcome, it is a change.</p><p>Tom is still very alone.  He thinks he might have died another time (it was very cold one night, and two others who also slept alone were found frozen in the morning) but he cannot be certain because no one tried to wake him and Tom just sat up in the morning feeling fresher than he had any right to be.  (He wishes he knew for sure.  He thinks he is going mad.)</p><p>Tom does not dare write about this to anyone.  Whom would he tell?  Joe has been in the Army since early 1916 and promoted only months later from his own expertise; he is doing well for himself.  Before Tom was old enough to sign up, he and Mum awaited each letter from the Front with baited breath because each one showed how far Joe was coming up in the world.  Joe has a career ready for him after the war if-- when he makes it through.  Tom hasn't any right to jeopardize that.  </p><p>Anyway, there is a new draft in March.  Tom wishes he could say it was a good thing, but there isn't much to be known about the new men -- they keep away from him quick enough.  Even the Sergeant, Sanders, has started to look at Tom cock-eyed when Tom walks past.  (As if the increasing number of duties the Sarge assigned Tom weren't enough to tell Tom he wasn't wanted.)  </p><p>One of the newcomers is a new Lance Corporal.  His name is Schofield, William Schofield.  He meets the officers' eyes when they speak to him and looks at the ground at all other times.  He is very quiet, and also, he is very private.  </p><p>Tom is thoroughly unsettled when he sees Schofield.  Tom recognises him immediately: Schofield is one of the men from Tom's dreams of late.  They must have met before, though Tom hasn't the faintest notion where or when; why else should Tom have dreamt he'd seen the man?  But when Tom apologizes and says he does not recall meeting Schofield before, the man surprises him by confirming that they have never spoken.  </p><p>"Are you certain?" Tom presses, very rattled now.  How is he so familiar with Schofield's features -- the wrinkles at the corners of Schofield's eyes; the weariness that frames Schofield's temples; the sense of patience that imbues even Schofield's height, somehow unassuming despite the three inches he clearly has over Tom -- that Tom can identify each one so intimately?  "I could <em> swear </em> we've talked before -- you weren't a friend of my brother's before you shipped out, were you?"</p><p>Schofield's eyes are pale, piercingly so, and the kindness in them does not quite make up for the unearthly quality of his stare.  He looks Tom over for a long moment.  "We haven't," he says finally, even as Tom is increasingly convinced they have.  "I'd have remembered."</p><p>"Fine," Tom snaps, frustrated.  "Well I'm sorry I don't, then, or I'd know why you're lying."  Tom stalks off before he says something worse -- he has already been horribly rude -- and flinches when he hears the murmuring that starts up after he leaves.  No doubt the others are telling the new Lance Corporal about the ill-fortune that stalks Tom's steps of late.</p><p>But if Tom was convinced Schofield would be deterred, he is swiftly shown how mistaken that assumption was.  Schofield is not like the rest of the new draft.  Unlike every other man in their unit, he is never far away from Tom.  He does not shy from Tom's presence like most of the platoon and seems happy to seclude himself much the way Tom is forced into solitude through exclusion; and, moreover, he is happy to pass his time in close proximity with Tom. </p><p>His company means far more to Tom than Tom wants to admit.  Tom has been isolated by the others for nearly three months and Scho's interest is impossible to ignore after such loneliness.  (Tom knows it is stupid to feel that way, but Tom has never had trouble with making friends before -- now he cannot keep them when he tries.  With Schofield, though, he doesn't even need to try.  It is a wonderful reprieve.)</p><p>Tom learns quickly that it is not for the want of social graces that Scho is a quiet man -- it is more that Scho is content with listening.  In the face of Scho's clear preference for keeping Tom company, it is impossible to stay sullen or quiet.  Little by little, Tom finds he is coaxed into greater camaraderie, overtures of friendship that he has since ceased to try when everyone else eyes him with fear and mistrust.</p><p>The instinctive familiarity Tom feels for Schofield never diminishes.  That turns out not to matter: soon it is as easy as breathing to be comfortable in Scho's presence.  </p><p>--::o::--</p><p>There is a break in the weather not too long after the start of April.  The ground is still cold and frozen, mostly, but the temperatures rise, and the wind cuts less.  </p><p>Tom luxuriates in it.  It is all the reason he needs to find a spot on the outskirts of their Company when they are stationed at the rear.  Lying in the grass under the tree and stretched out to make the most of the cloudy sun, he feels as though he is in the finest feather bed.</p><p>--and no close tunnel walls!  Tom breathes deeply and relaxes further into the grass.  He hasn't had the time to examine this new dislike of close spaces and he has no wish to, not at present, but between the memory of waking beneath the heap of bodies and those dreams of his -- well, they haven't gotten any better.  He no longer dreams of Scho, more's the pity; instead, Tom has started to dream vividly of being shut up in an iron cage and drowning.  It is too easy to imagine those dugouts flooding and Tom's exit blocked, somehow . . .</p><p>But not now.  Tom cracks an eye and slants it sideways -- Scho's got the right idea.  He's leaning against the tree and taking in the sun, face turned up towards the light like the head of some flower.</p><p>Sanders waking him up some time later is unwelcome because, for once, Tom wasn't dreaming of anything.  "Pick a man," the Sergeant tells him briskly as Tom rubs his eyes and fights the urge to swear.  "Bring your kit."</p><p>There is nothing good about this, but maybe this is one of those times where Tom isn't being tasked with some sort of shite duty.  He gets up and sees Scho is watching Sanders walk away -- perfect.  Tom shrugs his kit into a better position and swallows down his fear that Scho won't come-- </p><p>--but Scho takes Tom's hand with a nod and follows easily.  Tom breathes out with relief. </p><p>"Did they feed us?" he asks his friend as they go.</p><p>"No," Scho says.  He passes Tom a letter instead.  Tom, seeing his mother's handwriting, stuffs it in his pocket -- he can't deal with that right now.  His leave was cancelled and he does not want to pick apart <em> that </em> mess.  Scho, mercifully, doesn't comment; he pulls out some bread and ham instead and shares it with Tom.</p><p>"Think something's up?" Tom asks around a mouthful of it as they enter the trench system.  There's activity everywhere.  Soldiers swirl around patching up signal lines, mustering into units, barking out orders to check their kit.  Tom swallows uneasily and feels it choke its way down his throat.  </p><p>"Let's hope not," Scho says.  The ease of a few minutes ago is gone.  He settles his rifle straighter over his shoulder.</p><p>"In your own time, gentlemen," Sanders says sourly when they catch up with him.</p><p>Tom catches a little of Scho's stiffness.  Tension thrums in his belly -- he regrets eating, now.  </p><p>Scho knocks up against him.  Tom looks over and sees Scho nod slightly; it is reassuring.  Whatever it is Tom is wanted for, Scho is right there with him.  This steadiness bolsters him through the announcement that it is the General who wants to see him and the reference to mentions in dispatches; it shatters abruptly at the General's second question.  </p><p>"You have a brother in the 2nd Devons?" he asks Tom.  </p><p>Tom feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.  That question, and the General's seriousness -- is Joe in trouble?  "Yes," Tom says, alarmed.  "Joseph -- is he--?"</p><p>"Alive," says Erinmore grimly.  "And I'd like to keep him that way."</p><p>Tom listens but barely hears most of it -- hell, he hardly dares to breathe through the briefing.  He has never felt panic like this before.  Joe doesn't deserve to die with the ground turning to mud beneath him from his own blood -- to die alone, like Tom -- and Joe can't possibly come back like Tom did--</p><p>"Any questions, gentlemen?" </p><p>Tom feels feverish.  They need to move.  "No, Sir," Tom says. </p><p>At the same time, Scho asks: "Sir, <em> how </em> do we know the Germans have gone?"</p><p>The question brings the movement in the dugout to a halt.  Tom is pulled out of his own thoughts with shock: that is <em> not </em> the tone one takes with a superior officer.  He stares at Scho, who is standing straight as anything and looking the General in the eye.</p><p>Erinmore stiffens dangerously.  "Watch your tone, Lance Corporal," he warns, frigid.  If it wouldn't draw attention, Tom would kick his friend -- he settles for bumping up against the side of him and hopes Scho takes the hint.</p><p>Scho's response is long in coming and it sounds like it is dragged out of him.  "Sorry, Sir."</p><p>Even Tom knows this is not enough to mollify the general and get any real answer out of him.  "Headquarters intelligence," Erinmore bites out, face hard.  "I don't expect I need to explain the particulars to you."</p><p>Scho nods, mouth pressed thin.  "Yes Sir," Tom says, and salutes.  They need to get moving and a pissing contest isn't the way to go about it.</p><p>This occupies Tom's attention only a little, though -- the chat with the Lieutenant redirects him thoroughly back to the business at hand.  He takes the things they are handed and stuffs them in the appropriate parts of his kit.</p><p>"Let's talk about this," Scho says to him quietly outside.</p><p>"Why?" Tom bites out, mind racing.  He makes for the trenches the Lieutenant named and strides down them, only half-listening while Scho natters on about waiting for dark.  Even if the Bosche have gone, well, it's still several miles to get to Ecoust -- and who knows if <em> all </em> of them have left, there's simply no time to waste--</p><p>Scho catches him on the arm and hauls him to a stop.  Tom nearly bites through his tongue with his furious startle and has to remind himself not to take a swing.  "No one will get to your brother if we're not clever about this!" Scho says urgently.</p><p>Tom jerks his arm free.  Scho's been in a fight before, he knows that much, and Tom shouldn't be discounting his friend's words so much -- but it doesn't matter, because it isn't like Tom doesn't know how crazy this is, too.  None of that matters: Joe's life is at stake.  </p><p>"I will," Tom says with absolute conviction.  Even if he has to crawl out of another pile of bodies, <em> Tom will make it. </em>  </p><p>Tom sees as Scho absorbs this -- sees the moment that Scho understands.  Scho still is not happy; his mouth tightens even more for a moment, and Tom almost thinks they are going to have to have it out -- but then Scho softens.  He sighs.  "Fine," Scho says.  He unshoulders his rifle and nods to Tom.  "Lead on, then."</p><p>His heart thuds in his throat; Tom is betting a <em> lot </em> on . . . </p><p>--don't think of that.  Don't think, don't think, don't think of sinking into mud, or mud at all--</p><p>--except for setting his feet right.  They slither across No Man's Land and it is horrendous.  Tom may have died once but he hasn't been forced to confront the hell visited on the land between the lines like this, and the corpses he woke up beneath were not so wretched as these.  He thinks of Joe dying in a place like this and the fear of that image lends him new energy.  </p><p>The German lines are empty, eerily so: for all that the Bosche have gone, it is though the ghost of them remains.  Navigating the trenches, Tom and Scho hit dead end after dead end until at last they find an opening in the earth.  The only way out is through.  </p><p>They both pause here.  Tom has to grit his teeth and steel himself as they stand outside it; the entrance to the German dugout is dark and feels close, oddly, in a way that the British dugouts haven't.  Scho, he sees, is just as reluctant, looking into the opening with the perfectly blank expression that he only reserves for his truest distaste, paler than Tom has ever seen him.</p><p>Tom is stricken, then.  Maybe it is seeing Scho with the same mislike for the situation, but Tom is suddenly aware that he is responsible for Scho, now.  Scho wouldn't be here if it weren't for Tom and Tom has been doing a shite job of remembering that.  Well -- Tom can help a little, at least.  If he leads, Scho will find it easier to follow.  Tom clicks on his torch and, hefting his rifle a bit higher, steps in first.  </p><p>The bunkers are just as empty as the lines, but here it feels like the Bosche are breathing over their shoulders.  Still, Tom's determination bolsters him; he ignores the creeping anxiety of the looming walls about him and manages quite well, right up until they investigate the officers' room at the end and--</p><p>"Tripwire," Scho says.  Tom is not imagining the fear in Scho's voice -- he feels it too, that ice that settles in his veins.  Explosives -- and they are underground--</p><p><em> Smack. </em>  A rat's weight causes one of the bags to drop to the floor, perilously close.  "No, no!" Tom whispers, horrified, but he moves so slowly -- and then the world explodes.  </p><p>When his vision clears, he cannot see Scho.  The room is half-buried; there is an angry rumble around them.  "Scho?" Tom shouts, suddenly terrified beyond all reason.  "Scho!"</p><p>Nothing -- just the rumbling.  Tom throws himself at the rubble, scraping it aside with his bare hands -- Scho must be here, he <em> must, </em> Tom has to get him out--</p><p>Someone shouts.  It is muffled.  Tom redoubles his efforts as it turns frantic, pitch climbing with fear.  "Scho!" he shouts back, and finds a boot that kicks weakly as soon as it is freed.  Tom scrambles up the pile, digging where the rest of Scho must be--</p><p>Scho lurches upright, flailing.  He catches hold of Tom and clings and coughs, weak, wheezing through a mouthful of dust; spits mud.  The ground above them shakes and dust showers down.</p><p>Tom drags his friend upright.  "You keep hold of me!" he shouts, grabbing Scho's hand and slapping it on Tom's shoulder.  </p><p>Scho's grip is like iron even as he doubles, retching.  Still, he stumbles after Tom.  Tom has nothing in him but determination, a blind need to <em> move, </em> and it is like something else takes over his body as he assesses the tunnels he sees and makes his decisions with snap-clarity that astounds him.  </p><p>Tom is a bit knocked out of this when he nearly slides right into a dreadful gap.  His torch does nothing to illuminate it -- it must be deep.  "We'll have to jump," Tom says, desperate.  They can't go back -- they must go forward -- "Come on!  <em> C'mon!" </em></p><p>Tom throws himself across the gap.  Scho is right next to him but a moment later.  They dodge falling rubble and collapsed support beams and hurtle out the opening.  It spews dust after them like Goliath's exhale.</p><p>"Wait -- just wait," Scho chokes.  He leans against the opening and hacks the deep, tearing coughs of the suddenly-stricken.  He spits more gunk, great gobs of pavement-colored goo.  </p><p>"Bastard rats," Tom snaps, giddy with post-flight shakes.  "Should've shot them when I had the chance!"</p><p>"They piled food there," Scho rasps.  He is leaning against the opening with his head resting against his arm -- he looks liable to collapse at any moment.  Still, Tom hears him clearly.  "They wanted rats to come in -- they wanted it to be set off."</p><p>"Damn them, then!"  Tom needs to move; he needs to work this frenzy out of his system.  "C'mon!"</p><p>"Give me a moment!" Scho pleads.  </p><p>"We're wasting time--"</p><p><em> "Give me a bloody moment," </em> Scho snarls.  Tom is brought short by the tone -- he has never heard that from Scho before.  Scho's hands shake as he unscrews the cap of his canteen and pours the water over his eyes, blinking to irrigate them and wash the dust away, and Tom feels ashamed.  He has faced death before but Scho likely hasn't, for all that he has always seemed so much steadier. </p><p>Tom swallows his protests and waits.  Anxiety tears at him.  He needs to move, they need to move, they need to get to the 2nd -- but Scho is so clearly shaken, and he is right in front of Tom.  And it is <em> Scho, </em> who is still following Tom even though he thinks this is madness.  So Tom bites his tongue.  He bites it until it bleeds.  He waits until Scho's breathing evens out and Scho seems to settle in himself, calmer, before he says, "Come on, then.  Let's get moving."</p><p>Scho takes a deep breath, maybe to protest -- but he nods.  He straightens his helmet and hefts his rifle high in front of him.</p><p>The German bunker has let out to the other side of a quarry.  There are guns, dozens of the big artillery pieces; rather than take them along, the Bosche have blown them up.  Their barrels are split at the tops like daisies.</p><p>"Bastard rats . . ." Tom mutters, jumping as another of the buggers makes its ghoulish appearance.  It is perched on the shoulder of a fallen Hun and watches them as they pass.  Just like that one who made off with Wilko's ear . . .</p><p>"Say," he says, raising his voice so Scho can hear.  "Did Wilko ever tell you about his ear?"</p><p>"Keep your eyes on the treeline," Scho says, clipped.  He's still in a mood.  Well -- Tom can fix that, soon enough.  He forges on with his story about Wilko; it is so ridiculous that he knows it can't fail to brighten Scho's outlook.  When Scho starts to snicker behind him, seemingly despite himself, Tom chalks it up as one of the few true successes of this mission so far.  He hasn't heard Scho laugh like that before.  </p><p>"Hey," Tom says when they reach the edge of the little copse and look out over the rolling hills ahead of them.  Scho isn't so strained now and his expression is more relaxed when he looks over to Tom, so Tom feels comfortable to say, "Scho -- thanks."</p><p>Scho blinks.  "What for?" he asks.  It isn't said meanly or anything, but for some reason it makes Tom flush, anyway.  It is like -- it's almost as though speaking about this out loud makes it less real, and now Tom doesn't understand why he is doing this either. </p><p>"Just -- never mind," Tom says hastily.  He straightens the edge of his helmet to match Scho's and sets off down the slope.</p><p>There is a farm a little ways further.  It is empty.  Tom is struck silent with sudden homesickness, seeing the cherry trees, or perhaps it is that the scene simply hits close to home.  These were perfectly lovely trees only days ago, but one act of violence has changed that irrevocably . . .</p><p>"You all right there, Tom?"</p><p>Tom shakes himself free.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I'm fine."</p><p>They cut through the orchard fast.  The farmhouse is desolate, a shell of a former home that has Scho walking out thin-lipped and white-faced.  Tom doesn't ask.  Then there is the sound of gunfire, far away and high up, and a plane sails out of the sky and straight into the barn.</p><p>Tom doesn't know what comes over him, but at the first of the pilot's screams, he is running over to help.  This man is alone; even if he's dying, at least he won't be by himself--</p><p>--he isn't dying.  Tom should not feel this relieved looking over the man who, granted, is horrifically burned, but that could just be this aviator suit . . .</p><p>"We should finish him off," Scho says reluctantly.  </p><p>The very thought -- even though this is the enemy, just the thought is so awful Tom feels like he could vomit.  "What are you, mad?" Tom replies, appalled.  "He needs water -- get him some water!"</p><p>Scho hesitates for a moment and, in retrospect, Tom should have paid better attention to it.  But he looks at this German pilot, who sounds exactly as frightened as Tom was when he was dying from shrapnel, and finds that he is desperate to help.  "It's all right," Tom says to the pilot, trying for calming, keeping his hands out and unthreatening.  "It'll be all right, we're getting you some water."</p><p>Something in the pilot changes.  He comes to a greater awareness, perhaps.  Tom sees the shift but it is too late to do anything: the knife the man plunges in him goes deep.</p><p>"No, no!"  </p><p>Tom stares at the blood on his hands, hardly noticing anything else.  Dying -- he is dying, again.  He is dying, he must be -- he doesn't know how he is so certain, but he <em> knows.</em></p><p>
  <em> Crack. </em>
</p><p>Scho catches him when he falls.  "It'll be all right, Tom," Scho says, voice urgent.</p><p>"Again," Tom says faintly, still stuck on that.  "Again."</p><p>"We have to stop the bleeding," Scho tells him, and then his hands press against Tom's side and the wound lances pain all through him.  </p><p>Tom cries out at the suddenness of it.  "No!" he says, and he wants to push Scho away, push this pain away -- and then he cries because for God's sake, Tom had a second chance.  He still doesn't know how he survived that shell, how he died and woke up and crawled free, but now Tom is dying again and he has wasted it.  Tom should have left; Tom should have gone home; Tom should have written to his mother, his brother . . .</p><p>"Tell them I love them," he pleads to Scho.  "Please!  Tell them I'm sorry--"</p><p>"Tom," Scho interrupts, with a steel and authority in his voice that reaches Tom even in the middle of his terror.  Scho has him by the back of his neck, squeezing enough to make his presence known even as he holds wadded-up field dressings to Tom's side.  "I promise you: it will be all right."</p><p>"It will?" Tom asks, bewildered.  He feels small and helpless and Scho's certainty is a lifeline to which he wants to cling.  "But I-- I'm--"</p><p>"Yes," Scho says gently so that Tom does not have to finish.  Scho shifts so that he has his whole arm underneath Tom's head now, almost cradling him.  "You are.  But it will be all right."</p><p>Tom doesn't understand it at all but there is a strange peace settling over him, anyway.  "Thank you," Tom whispers, looking up at him.  He knows this feeling: he has felt it before.  He says what he should have said earlier on the edge of that copse of trees.  "You're -- thank you, for staying with me . . ." <em> through everything, </em> but he cannot find the breath to finish.</p><p>"I'm not going anywhere," Tom hears Scho say at the end.  Tom dies.</p><p>--and gasps awake.</p><p>He does not understand at first.  Someone holds him, rocking him a little as though he were a babe.  "It's all right, Tom," they say.  "There you are -- you're all right."</p><p>It is Scho.  He has not moved.  Tom-- Tom--</p><p>"But I died," Tom stammers.  He feels at his side -- Scho loosens his grip so that Tom can move -- there is no pain.  "I just died!"  </p><p>Scho hesitates.  "Yes," he says.  "I think so."</p><p>Tom feels the tears roll from his eyes from the sheer frustration at his inability to understand.  <em> "Why don't I stay dead?" </em></p><p>Scho doesn't answer, which is just as well.  Tom does not know why Scho is still here.  There is something like horror growing in him and, shamefully, he cannot stop weeping.  Scho has been a mate, he really has, but -- now he has seen the proof of the rumors, now he knows . . .</p><p>"You all right, mate?"</p><p>Even lying down as he is, Tom has a horrific start.  Scho does not -- he answers calmly.  "We're all right.  Had a bit of a fright is all."</p><p>Tom finds himself helped up.  He sucks in some air and finds that the movement helps him shove the -- the -- the everything to one side so he can handle what is happening in front of him.  There's no hiding the massive bloodstains down his front that have soaked into his trousers and everything else -- Tom shudders as the chilling cloth slides stickily along his skin when he moves -- but Scho is quick to deflect the two Privates with the story of the German, implies that the blood is the pilot's. </p><p>There's a Captain, then, too, come to investigate the crash.  He assesses the two of them gravely.  When his eyes linger on the massive stain, Scho blandly offers the same story with enough reluctance that the Captain sees little reason to question it.</p><p>"You're in luck," he tells them when he hears their mission.  "I think we can take you some of the way."</p><p>"Thank you, Sir," Scho tells him.</p><p>Tom follows Scho and the Captain, numb.  All through the Captain's conversation with the Colonel and after, he keeps expecting Scho to turn on Tom and look at him with the same recrimination as Grey and Edwards and everyone else -- the look that says <em> you are </em> not <em> one of us.</em> </p><p>But Scho does nothing of the sort.  He claps a hand on Tom's shoulder and squeezes, tightly, even as the Captain drones on about something, and then -- shit.  The Captain is looking at Tom.  "Thank you, Sir," Tom says, praying this is the right response.  He hasn't been paying the slightest bit of attention.</p><p>The Captain looks at him keenly.  His gaze slides over to where Scho's hand rests on Tom's shoulder, and Tom realises that Scho has stepped slightly in front of Tom, putting himself between him and the Captain.  Tom feels a flush of -- something.  It swirls up through him and the next breath he takes is sharp and crisp.</p><p>"Right," says the Captain.  "In you get, then."</p><p>The casuals' truck is weary and uninterested -- so much the better for Tom, still trying to discreetly scrub the evidence of his crying fit from his face.  Hardly anyone looks up as Scho and Tom step up and over the footboard and into the bed.  Hell, most of it is empty -- then someone calls <em> "Move out!" </em> and there's another five or six men scrambling in behind them.</p><p>From further in the truck, Tom hears a muted exclamation.  "Will?"</p><p>Scho makes an indescribable sound.  Tom looks over at him and sees his friend is startled, clearly -- plainly and pleasantly so.  His expression eases and something like a smile touches his eyes as he trades a look with another soldier who is sitting up near the back of the cab.  The new soldier is studying Scho with the greatest of attention.</p><p>"What's that?" Tom says belatedly, before recognition slams all the air out of him.  The other soldier -- dark eyes, sandy blonde, a face lined with at least thirty years (if not more) -- is just as <em> bloody familiar </em> as Scho was the first time Tom met him.  Tom sucks in a breath hard through his nose and barely feels it as Scho pats him on the knee and grips him so hard it hurts.  Then the new man glances at him and Tom feels like he should hide.  He actually feels himself shrink back a little into the painted canvas -- that look is full of violence and promises nothing but retribution.</p><p>Scho makes another sound.  It is full of reproof and warning, both in one go, and it catches the new soldier's attention.  His gaze shifts back to Scho and the weight of it falls away from Tom.  </p><p>Tom takes a deep breath as the other man gets up and comes over to then.  He sways easily with the truck as it starts rumbling along the road again; the other soldiers complain without any heat and some space is made next to Scho.  This man takes it.  </p><p>"Didn't expect to see you like this," he says when he is seated.  His English is just the slightest bit off -- an accent Tom has never heard before.  "What are you doing here?"</p><p>"This is Blake," Scho says, tipping his head slightly in Tom's direction.  Tom swallows and prays it isn't noticed as he scrambles for something appropriate to say.  Bloody <em> hell, </em> what is he even supposed to <em> think? </em>  "Tom.  We've been sent to the 2nd Devons' newest position.  Headquarters Intelligence -- they think the Bosche have retreated and are attacking tomorrow morning outside Croisilles."</p><p>"Really?" the man says.  His tone is neutral but his expression is not -- he looks annoyed.  Tom, looking at him more closely, sees that his badges are not the same as the rest of the men in the truck.  "Bad luck for that lot, then."</p><p>"Say," Tom interrupts, recognising the man's insignia.  The words slip out of him despite his uncertainty.  "You're from the 2nd, aren't you?"</p><p>The man looks at Scho sidelong, something that seems to indicate a silent conversation.  Tom finds he is grinding his teeth at the clear familiarity.  "Yes," the man says after another moment.  "Corporal Richards, B Company."</p><p>"Ben," Scho says quietly to Tom.  "Benjamin Richards."</p><p>Richards smiles.  It is an expression that utterly transforms his face: it wipes away the exhaustion and apathy that Tom could swear were all that was in it.  "Yes."</p><p>"Friend of yours?" Tom asks, feeling odd.  </p><p>Scho looks like he is hiding a smile.  It is a shy expression, and not, Tom thinks, one he is meant to see.  "Yeah," Scho says, looking at Tom instead of his friend.  "Friends from before the war."</p><p>Tom nods and does his best to appear unaffected.  He is uncomfortably hot around his collar.  For fuck's sake, how is Tom jealous right now?  Scho can have other friends.  Tom doesn't have any other friends now, but that doesn't mean Scho is exclusively Tom's or anything.</p><p>Richards says nothing.  He is digging in his pockets and pulls out a wrapped bundle, which is opened to reveal--</p><p>"Cake?" Scho says, shocked.  Tom feels even more annoyed, now: Scho has never reacted like <em> that </em> to anything Tom has ever done.  "Where'd you get that?"</p><p>"Someone's mother," Richards says cheerfully, and breaks off a piece.  He hands it to Scho, who immediately takes a bite.</p><p>Scho hums as Richards breaks off another piece and offers it to Tom.  Tom takes it and nibbles it, intending to be polite; within seconds, he finds he has crammed the whole of it in his mouth.  It is just as good as the noises Scho made had advertised it to be.  </p><p>"What about the rest of us?" one of the soldiers in the truck complains, taking notice again now that food is in the open.  </p><p>"Piss off," Richards says agreeably.  "Already gave you your cut, didn't I?"  The lot of them chortle and slap the whiner good-naturedly; they return to their conversation about the worst officers.</p><p>"You're heading for the 2nd, then?" Tom hears Scho ask, quiet enough that no one outside of the three of them will hear.</p><p>"I got word from our other newest," Richards replies in kind.  He breaks off more of the cake and hands it to Scho and Tom.  "He's ready.  Bit of luck running into each other like this, really."</p><p>Tom takes the offered bit of cake but doesn't eat it.  "Is there something else we're doing?" he asks slowly, looking at the two of them.</p><p>Richards seems surprised.  He looks at Scho, clearly asking something.</p><p>"Yes," Scho says to Tom bluntly, "but you don't need to worry about it at the moment.  We need to get to the 2nd Devons, first."</p><p>From Scho's lips to God's ears, apparently, because at that moment everything bounces to a halt.  The lads around them grumble.  "If it's another bloody tree--"</p><p>"Bridge is out!" someone shouts from one of the trucks in front of them.</p><p>"Here's our stop, then," Scho murmurs, getting to his feet.  Tom follows his lead and shoulders his rifle.</p><p>"Luck, lads," Richards says to the rest of the truck as he stands.  "Aim high and keep your head low, yeah?"</p><p>"Same to you," one of them calls.</p><p>The Captain has come back around.  "We'll have to drive six miles further," the Captain tells Scho.  "There's another bridge there."</p><p>"We can't spare the time," Scho replies.  "We'll get off here."</p><p>"Then good luck, Lance Corporals," the Captain says with a nod.  He turns to leave, then pauses and adds -- "When you find Colonel Mackenzie, make sure you have witnesses."</p><p>Scho's head snaps around so fast Tom could swear he hears it.  He doesn't blame him in the slightest -- Tom is certain he looks just as unpleasantly surprised.  "I beg your pardon?"</p><p>The Captain nods grimly to them both.  "Some men just live for the fight," he says.  There is a moment where he and Scho seem to exchange a look, and then the Captain is gone for real.</p><p>The convoy putters off, leaving them to stare at the bridge.  Scho looks behind them at the sound of footsteps, so Tom does as well -- it's Richards, squinting at the disappearing trucks and crossing the road to them.  He grins at the both of them.</p><p>"I didn't exactly ask permission for the lift," he says slyly.  "Just hopped on maybe an hour before you showed up."</p><p>Scho huffs.  "Of course you did," he says.  "What'd you bribe them with?"</p><p>"This and that," Richards replies vaguely, stopping at Scho's other side.  "So.  Écoust, eh?"</p><p>"Écoust," Scho confirms. He gestures at the downed bridge, snapped in half like every other Act of God Tom has seen so far.  "What d'you think, Tom?  Think we can jump the gap between those girders?"</p><p>"You're joking," Richards says.</p><p>Tom squints at it and tips his head to get a better estimate of the actual distance.  "Could do," he says.  (And if Richards doesn't like it, so much the better.  Tom still doesn't know if he likes the man.)  "I'm game if you two are."</p><p>Scho nods.  "I'll go first," he says.</p><p>"No you don't," Richards contradicts.  "You go last -- cover us while we cross."</p><p>"Oh for God's sake," Tom snaps, patience wearing thin.  <em> "I'll </em> bloody go first, all right?"  And without waiting for anything else, he climbs up to the top and makes his way down their side. </p><p>The jump really isn't that terrible.  Tom has done worse.  It isn't that it is impossible so much as intimidating with the dark water on either side but Tom is used to fording the stream by his mum's farm.  Those rocks are as slippery as anything and hardly so level as the flat metal of the girder.  Tom makes the leap with ease.  He walks up the other side and jumps down to the planking proper once it isn't beneath the water any more. </p><p>He holds his rifle out and sweeps his sights around once he is on the other side.  The street is cluttered with rubble, collapsed buildings scattered across the cobbles.  Behind him, he hears a grunt as Richards lands his own leap and the thump that means he has dropped to the wooden struts. </p><p>"See anything?" Richards murmurs, seconds later.  He's also got his rifle out; his eyes are sharp as he sweeps the area like Tom.  It rankles. </p><p>Tom squashes that feeling once he identifies it.  "No," Tom replies.  "Think they've left the town for good?"</p><p>"I doubt it," Richards says, but he doesn't see anything either.  Tom turns to look behind them to see how Scho's getting on--</p><p>--movement catches the corner of his eye, high up--</p><p>--the crack of a gunshot is followed with a wet splat.  Tom sees Scho jerk and <em> fall. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>To be continued, obviously!</p><p>  <strong>BY THE WAY, BRIEF PSA: <a href="https://1917zine.bigcartel.com/">The 1917 Zine is still open for ordering!</a>  I didn't write anything for it, but @yonderlight, @mangalho, @cunninglinguist, @Baylard, and many many others DID!  All proceeds go to charity!  </strong></p><p>@writeyourownstory and I have been brainstorming this <em>since the start of November,</em> GOD.  <strike>And now I finally have the time to write out stuff that will contextualize all the smut I've already written ;)</strike>  Anyway, there's another Old Guard AU already out there -- go check Ailendolin's <a href="https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/28629714">Until death takes us up to a star</a> if you'd like a more contained fic in contrast to this sprawling . . . something, hahaha!</p><p>Chapters currently estimated at five, but may be as few as four.  If you've read my <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985167">Among Us! AU</a>, though, you'll note this is like five of those chapters smooshed together, so . . . WHO KNOWS</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter dedicated to @writeyourownstory, who is absolutely &amp; unequivocally a genuinely incredible human!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"No!" Tom shouts, reaching out uselessly.  Scho does not even flail -- he simply collapses, limp, and topples into the canal with a muted splash.  </p><p>Tom lurches and that is how the next shot misses him.  It shatters the pavement inches from his left boot and, belatedly, he scrambles for cover, ducking around the corner of the building opposite the sniper's roost.</p><p>"Cover me!" Richards shouts.  Tom catches a glimpse of him sliding over the lip of the canal, presumably dropping to the ledge beneath the bridge.  Fuck it -- if he can get to Scho in time (and Tom knows this is an impossibility, not with the way Scho was falling) Tom will do what he can.  He lifts his rifle and swings around the edge, firing a shot to distract the sniper.  Quick glance, try to get a line on him now that Tom is in a new position, then duck back behind the corner for cover as a return shot whizzes past.  Tom leans around the corner with a hopefully-better aim and fires again -- glass shatters.  Tom fires a third time and ducks. </p><p>There's another ringing crack.  <em> "I said cover me!" </em></p><p><em> "I am!" </em> Tom screams back and takes another shot.  He thinks he has got the rhythm of it now, how to trade fire -- it is just that it is a stalemate.  Unless something changes--</p><p>Something slams into his head and knocks him flying backwards.  Dazedly, Tom blinks up at the sky.  What the hell happened? </p><p>He has been knocked to the ground.  He looks around and sees his helmet rocking gently on the pavement a few feet away; there's a tremendous dent in it.  How odd.</p><p>Distantly, he hears gunfire.  "Got him," someone says.  </p><p>Scho swims into view.  "Hullo there, Tom," he says, kneeling next to Tom.  He touches Tom's forehead lightly with a grimace.  "Lucky your helmet caught the brunt of that."</p><p>"He got you too, didn't he?" Tom asks, muzzily.  He could've sworn he saw Scho fall . . .</p><p>"Just a tap, like you," Scho confirms, which isn't what Tom saw at all, but then he also sees double of his friend right now so Tom supposes he could have been mistaken.  "Go ahead and lie still a moment -- give yourself time to heal."</p><p>"Oh.  All right," Tom says, confused as anything.</p><p>There's a sound -- a shout.  It is tentative.  The second one is not. </p><p>"Looks like he isn't quite dead," Richards says, still out of Tom's view, as Scho looks back towards where the sniper was.  "Stay with Tom -- I'll handle this."</p><p>"Careful," Scho tells him.  Footsteps crunch and fade out of hearing.</p><p>"It looked like you died," Tom confesses once he thinks Richards is away.  Already Tom is feeling a lot better; he remembers better, too.  He could <em> swear </em> Scho was hit, somewhere vital: the way Scho had fallen had been the kind of falling that happens when the person isn't conscious.  </p><p>Scho pats his shoulder.  It is a solid thing and Tom feels it keenly: Scho is really here.  Tom finds he can breathe again.  "I'm not going anywhere," Scho says firmly.  </p><p>A shot echoes from the building where the sniper was and there is a muted thud.  Scho tenses and raises his rifle, sliding into a crouch from which he can fire it and Tom realises that was not a shot and an echo, but two shots fired so closely together that the reports blended.  He rolls and finds his rifle -- not far, but he had definitely dropped it when he was knocked over -- and scrambles unsteadily to do the same.  </p><p>Richards walks out the door alone a moment later.  Tom's stomach drops when he sees that Richards has blood all down the side of his face but he signals that the building is clear when he sees Scho and Tom and walks over steadily enough.</p><p>"What happened to you?" Tom demands when he is closer.</p><p>"Nothing.  Just a ricochet," Richards says easily.  "I'm fine.  Are we ready to move on?"</p><p>"Tom?" Scho asks.</p><p>Tom's head is a <em> lot </em> clearer, now; with it, so is the return of the anxiety of needing to move.  "Yeah," he replies to them both.  "I'm ready."</p><p>"Let's duck inside while we sort out our next step," Richards suggests as the two of them get to their feet.  He glances at the sky, which is overcast still; Tom checks his watch reflexively.  It is just past five.  His stomach cramps.</p><p>They take cover in the abandoned lockhouse.  No one has come to investigate so far and it is the only building with four walls and what passes as a roof.  There is blood on the stair they have to step over to get to the upper floor, where the sniper is slumped by the window.  Tom queasily tries to ignore the body and has a hard time of it; and then Scho fiddles with the man's gear and pulls out a Bosche-issue slicker that he drapes over the body and Tom finds it easier to forget.</p><p>"Still got that map?" Scho asks.</p><p>"What?  --Oh, yeah, of course," Tom says, startled.  He fumbles for a moment before pulling himself together and slinging his rifle over his shoulder to get it out of the way.  When he retrieves it, he is not the only one who makes a noise of dismay: the map is stained horribly with even more blood.  </p><p>Tom has to forcibly wrench his mind away from the reminder of sticky cloth and the sweeping sense of peace one gets from bleeding to death.  He unfolds the map gingerly, careful of tearing the creases as damp as they still are.  It isn't utterly illegible, but it is still damned hard to make out.  </p><p>Nevertheless, between the three of them, they pick out enough landmarks as they huddle upstairs.  Richards, weirdly, has the hardest time of it; Tom actually gets the sense that Richards would like to complain quite a lot.  Thankfully, he does not.  </p><p>"There are certainly more Germans in the town," Richards murmurs when Tom and Scho have managed to figure out precisely where they are on the map and, moreover, the direction in which they need to head (get to the other side of the town and then follow the river south).  "We can certainly get through it, but is it worth the possibility for delay?"</p><p>"Given the response time to the sniper's shouts, they are probably scattered throughout the environs," Scho argues.  "If we are careful, we can skirt any larger groups."</p><p>"Not until nightfall at least," Richards points out.  Tom checks his watch again: it is half past the hour.  If he recalls correctly, sunset is not until nearly a quarter 'til eight, so they have just over two hours before the sun goes down.  Still . . .</p><p>"We might be able to go earlier.  There's a storm coming," he points out.  Even a man from the city should be able to tell from the scent alone; there is water in the air.  </p><p>As if on cue, there's a soft rumble outside.</p><p>"Not your stomach, is it?" Richards asks absently, looking out the window.  </p><p>About to retort, Tom spots the slight smile on Scho's face.  "Could do with a bite," he says instead, and Scho grins outright.</p><p>Richards snorts, too.  "If it starts raining in the next hour, I think you're right -- I bet we can make it through then," he agrees.  "Those clouds look heavy."</p><p>"Hey," Scho says suddenly.  "You still have that tarpaulin you got a few months back?"</p><p>Richards looks at him.  "The German one?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>Tom only half pays attention to Richards's answering affirmation.  He looks at the dead sniper again, covered by a slicker that is very different from what he's been issued, and catches on to Scho's idea immediately.  "Disguise ourselves as Bosche?" he says. </p><p>Richards is digging in his kit again.  He pulls out a bundle, tightly wrapped, that is unfolded to reveal a tarpaulin square that is identical (if less worn) to the one draped over the body.  Buttons march up along one edge and button-holes down another; the cut and color are different from Tom's and definitely Not British.</p><p>"We need one more," he says, and tosses it to Scho.  "You'll pass the best of us."</p><p>Scho sheds most of the bits and bobs hanging off his webbing and fluidly throws the slicker over his shoulders.  Properly adjusted, it drapes enough to cover his uniform down to his knees.  Before Tom can protest -- Scho still looks too much like a Brit -- Scho briskly swaps his helmet for the sniper's and sets it on his head.  He turns to Richards expectantly and clicks his heels before stiffening into an unfamiliar salute.  "Good enough?"</p><p>"I'll save you some bread," Richards promises as Tom is still busy gawping.  If he didn't know better, he'd say he was looking at a Hun.  "Luck, mel."</p><p>--::o::--</p><p>It is an awkward wait.  Tom still does not know what to make of Richards, honestly, and Richards does not seem inclined to chat.  He does pull out more food, though, including, as promised, some genuinely fresh bread.  </p><p>Tom gets a third of the little loaf that is produced.  The crust is still crisp, if a bit squashed, and the interior is only barely starting to go stale.  One bite is enough to tell Tom that every bit of it is better than he anything has had in months.  </p><p>"Where'd you get this?" he asks, appetite suddenly roaring.  He stuffs more of it in his mouth.  "It's bloody brilliant."</p><p>"I made it," Richards says, tearing off a piece from his third.  "Hobby of mine, really.  Baked it fresh yesterday."</p><p>"It's brilliant," Tom mumbles through the entire rest of the loaf (it is not that large, unfortunately).  He wishes he had more when he finishes and tries not to look too longingly at the portion Richards is clearly saving for Scho.  "Thanks."</p><p>Scho returns within the hour, ghosting up the stairs so quietly that Tom is startled at his appearance and scrambles for his rifle.  Scho smiles a bit crookedly about the time that Tom realises that this German has puttees on, not just narrow trousers, and then recognises his friend.  </p><p>"It's just me," Scho reassures him.  "Though that bodes well for our chances, that reaction."</p><p>He has acquired another tarpaulin, which he hands to Tom.  Scho eats his bread quickly as Richards and Tom do their best to disguise themselves.  Outside, the light has dimmed dramatically as the wind has begun to blow; the storm is almost on them.  The rumbling promises a fair whack of rain to boot.</p><p>Scho has managed to find not only another slicker but another helmet as well.  Richards makes Tom put it on and takes Tom's helmet for himself.  "Will and I both speak enough German to pass as soldiers," he says to Tom.  "I can pass as one of them better than you can even without a helmet; I'll just tell them I lost mine and picked up a dead man's to replace it.  They won't think to talk to you if I'm already speaking."</p><p>"How did you learn German?" Tom wants to know.  "Is that where you met?  Public school?"</p><p>"A friend of ours taught us," Scho says in answer to the first question, but ignores the second as the clouds crack open and rain sheets down with a sudden roar.  "--Just in time.  All set?"</p><p>Tom opens his mouth to affirm, automatic, but hesitates.  Richards took the sniper's tarpaulin for himself and now the dead man is slumped against the windowsill, exposed to the elements.  Already, rain is soaking into his hair.</p><p><em> This is stupid, </em> Tom thinks to himself, but suddenly, he can't stand the thought of the man's body being left like that.  He crosses the room and shoves his arms under the sniper's shoulders and tries not to pay attention to how the body is stiffening as he levers it up and drags it a few feet to the side where it can lean against the wall and be out of the rain.</p><p>"Ready," he says when he is finished.  </p><p>(Tom knows this corpse won't wake up.  But if the man does come back to life, he won't be so uncomfortable.  --Or something.)</p><p>Neither of his fellows comment on this, but Scho does squeeze Tom's shoulder briefly as they leave the lonely room.  Swathed in Bosche slickers and hunching against the downpour, they exit the abandoned lockhouse.  </p><p>Écoust in the rain may have been lovely before the war, for all Tom knows.  Now, it is a bloody mess.  The rubble makes for treacherous footing, slicked with ash and worse from the burned-out parts.  In the drastically fading light, it is difficult to see and even more difficult to put one's feet right.  --Which is to say that yes, Tom does trip a lot, but at least he isn't alone in his clumsiness: Scho and Richards are both as bad as he is.</p><p>Of all of them, Richards curses the most.  Tom is increasingly uncomfortable: Scho's friend isn't speaking German, Tom doesn't think, but he sure as hell isn't speaking English, either.  Tom has heard a little German spoken, and he has certainly heard French, but he is not familiar with whatever it is that Richards is using to grumble imprecations.  Tom puzzles over it for a while before he gives up and adds that to the list of questions he is going to ask Scho when they have time at the end of this.</p><p>Scho, meanwhile, seems much -- happier?  Is that even the right thing to say?  --Maybe more comfortable, at least.  He walks easily in the Bosche slicker and the Bosche helmet and doesn't hunch in the slightest save to keep the rain from trickling down his collar; his confidence is extraordinary.  Tom works to imitate him and finds himself stepping lighter and feeling taller.  It is <em> really </em> weird.</p><p>Nevertheless, the first time they pass a German patrol, Tom flinches.  He knows he does because he can see the posture of the two Bosche soldiers shift in response, angling to focus on their trio--</p><p>--Scho raises his voice and calls out.  His tone encompasses all the distaste of a soldier out on patrol in the middle of a storm like this.  </p><p>The other pair relax.  One of them replies something with a grunt and nods to them, and then Tom and Scho and Richards are past the pair and the low murmur of resumed conversation is heady relief.</p><p>"Relax," Richards says quietly in Tom's ear.  "We're supposed to be here -- we're just another lot of miserably wet Huns on patrol, yeah?" the man reminds him.  </p><p>Scho bumps up along Tom's other side.  Tom shoots him a look and sees that Scho's expression is -- well, when he looks like that, Tom just knows it will be all right.  (Tom breathes.)  It Is hard to explain, but if there is one thing he has learnt time and time again today, it is that Scho has the right of it.  --Whatever <em> it </em> is.</p><p>The storm has already made everything much dimmer than it would be normally and soon it is as though the sun has already set.  Everything is murky as the shadows spread almost like fog; it is soon clear to Tom that there is nothing living in this town beyond the few soldiers.  There are no lights in the windows, let alone many buildings still with roofs; no street lamps, no glow of cafes or pubs.  </p><p>There is the fire in the distance.  Despite the rain it is growing, a sullen glow that only gets brighter as the minutes pass and they trip and slip down the wet streets.  "Something's burning," Richards mutters.  "Think it's the square?"</p><p>"I wouldn't think there was anything that big they could set fire to," Scho replies softly.</p><p>"One of the buildings, I bet," Tom guesses.  "Whatever was left standing after they shelled this place to hell."</p><p>None of them want to test their flimsy disguises against a fire-lit square.  Scho scans what street signs they pass and steers them down a little alley that puts them on a darker road that runs somewhat parallel to the direction they were going.</p><p>They pass a building that still has most of its roof.  Voices echo out the broken door frame and there is a smaller light inside, but whomever is in it does not notice them pass and Tom does not get a good look at the interior.</p><p>They hit a street that curves them around inevitably with no way to turn off of it, though they could easily chance hiking through the rubble piles of the collapsed buildings here.  There are a few, certainly, but they are black and the bits of stone look like the teeth of a fallen monster; absolutely uninviting.</p><p>The further they go, the more tense Tom feels.  Even with most of the buildings smashed to bits, the narrow streets are closing in on him.  It feels like it is only a matter of time that they are discovered -- only a matter of time that they are shot -- only a matter of time that Tom wakes up alone in the street with Scho and Richards dead beside him--</p><p>"Steady," Scho whispers.</p><p>Tom blinks.  He is breathing a bit fast, a little shallow -- but more importantly, there is a bridge in sight.  It is still intact, a tremendous thing of stone with beautiful and worn carved railings and a solidity that speaks of being well-settled.  They have reached the other side of Écoust.</p><p>It looks like a straight shot.  The rain has let up, enough that Tom does not have to squint too hard to try to make out anything ahead of them.  There are carts scattered across the bridge, some overturned and some not; some are smashed and some are intact.  Left from when the town's original inhabitants fled, likely.  It is certainly not impassible and the cool darkness on the other side whispers of relative safety and promises space, a reprieve from the twisting labyrinth of the urban centre.</p><p>--But they are not free quite yet.  There is a guard house here, on the edge; the windows are covered with every bit of cloth and paper and anything else that can be glued to them to cover the glass and light shines through the bottom of the door, a narrow line of warning.  Outside, there is a brief, close glow: the lit end of some Hun's fag.  Tom feels his stomach plummet even as he and Scho and Richards do not falter in their pace and keep on.  </p><p>"We can make it, just keep moving," Richards hisses in Tom's ear.  At about the same moment, the Bosche sentry calls out to them.</p><p>As before, Scho responds.  But this time, something isn't right.  </p><p>Richards picks up on it as well even before the sentry replies with what Tom can tell is suspicion.  Tom feels the older man's arm come up and smoothly hook around Tom, somehow pulling Tom behind him without it looking too obvious, and then--</p><p>--Scho responds with an escalating tone but he moves too slowly: the sentry aims and fires.  For the second time, Tom sees Scho's head snap to the side, and this time there is no mistaking it: there is a round hole, neat, right through his friend's eye, turning it to a bloody, pulpy mess.  Tom finds he has dropped his rifle, grasps at empty air--</p><p>--"GO!" Richards shouts in his ear and shoves him, hard.  Tom staggers forward to the bridge, broken free of the frozen horror.  "Run, damn it!  <em> Go!" </em></p><p>Whether it is because of the order or because of his own fear, Tom bolts.  He sees the guard get knocked back into the wall as he sprints past and then Tom darts across the bridge, faster than he has ever run in his life, and hears gunfire behind him; hears another choked-off grunt of someone hit and the thud-slap of something heavy and soft hitting the little runnels of water between the cobbles in the street.  It is a blow: distantly, he recognises that Richards is not going to follow Tom across the river either.  </p><p>The Bosche -- more must have responded to the sentry's alarm -- take shots at him but Tom is across the water and into the darkness on the other side.  He skids along the muddy roadway and runs and runs and runs long past when the noises have faded into the darkness of the evening; he does not even notice that they have ceased.  He runs until he stumbles and trips and goes flying and finds himself dazed, in a ditch, his face toward the sky and eyes stinging with more than just rain.  </p><p>At the impact, Tom flinches and huddles and retches in his fear.  He cowers, expecting the shout of discovery and the crack of a rifle at any second.  It takes him a moment to realise that he is alone and none of the Bosche have followed.</p><p>"Fuck," Tom says to himself, utterly shaken, and then again: <em> "Fuck!" </em>  He tries and tries and tries, but he cannot think of anything to do except keep repeating that word and so he kicks at the side of the ditch instead.  He tries and tries and tries, but he cannot seem to-- he can't--</p><p>Tom does not know how long he sits in the ditch.  What he does know is that at some point, the rain stops, and the silence lengthens.  </p><p>And then:</p><p><em> Pop. </em>  In the distance, a faint hiss.</p><p>There is a spark of light that catches his eye.  Tom jerks around, startled, and sees flares far away; flares arcing high over the remnants of a little town.  Mesmerized, it takes another long minute before the thought surfaces in his mind: he has a mission to finish.</p><p>Tom gasps.  It is like he wakes.  Suddenly his skin prickles with pins and there is an electric sensation that fills him.  He gets to his feet and finds his rifle is gone and his helmet is still the Bosche's--</p><p>
  <em>"--can pass as one of them better than you can even without a helmet--"</em>
</p><p>--Tom throws it away from him, cursing, and then needs to take a moment to master himself when he discovers he is trembling.  He can't think about that now.  Tom has a mission.  He needs to finish it.  </p><p>Tom fumbles his compass free of its pouch and retracts his head into the tarpaulin to check it with his torch.  Somehow, he has turned the right way even in his panic: he is headed south.  He cannot keep following the road if he wants to follow the river, though -- already he is yards away from the river's banks.  </p><p>The river it is, then.  </p><p>Tom does not really remember this part of his journey later with any clarity.  It is a nasty trek in the dark, the banks and rocks slippery with rain and river-water, but there is a tiny path right along the edge that makes the going less difficult, at least.  There is a waterfall that is challenging to work around and, much later, an orchard whose blossoms are fragrant and achingly familiar.  </p><p>Tom gets through all of it with a curious detachment.  He moves automatically as though his body is not his own; his entire being is consumed with the impact of the ground as he takes each step.  He needs to move.  He has to move.  He cannot stop moving.  </p><p>Tom honestly thinks that he might have just kept marching along the river forever and missed the Devons entirely were it not for a crackle of branches sometime past midnight that causes him to freeze.  He hears voices as he stands stock-still and holds his breath, and then someone hisses: "Who goes there?"</p><p>"Oh, thank God," Tom says before he can stop himself.  He squints; it is too dark to see well, but after a few seconds he thinks he makes out the outlines of three men.  "Is this the Devons?  Have I reached the Devons?"</p><p>"No, we're Middlesex," says the other man, "but we're here with the Devons.  Who're you?"</p><p>"I've a message for Colonel Mackenzie," Tom croaks.  "Can you tell me where I can find him?"</p><p> --::o::--</p><p>Luckily, it turns out Mackenzie has not yet gone to bed.  He is still up and arguing with another officer when Tom is let into the man's tent.  </p><p>The Colonel takes Erinmore's orders with all the grace of a true bastard.  Tom is certain that were it not for the other man present -- a Major, it appeared -- Mackenzie might have sent Tom away with the orders unread.  Instead, he swears a blue streak and, blisteringly, dismisses Tom.  Wearily, Tom exits the tent.  </p><p>"Well done, lad," says the Major gently to Tom.  He has followed Tom outside.  "Go get yourself to the mess -- they'll have something, even this late."</p><p>Tom nods, replying, "Yes, Sir," entirely without understanding.  </p><p>Then -- <em> Joe. </em>  Oh, bloody hell, Tom almost forgot about his own bloody brother.  "Er -- Sir, sorry, but -- d'you know where Lieutenant Blake is?"</p><p>The Major seems taken aback.  "Lieutenant Blake?  --Oh, are you his brother then?"</p><p>"Yes, Sir."</p><p>"You look a lot alike," the Major replies and points the opposite way Tom has come.  "You'll find him with the rest of his platoon down the line that way.  Ask for B Company."</p><p>"Thank you, Sir," Tom says, but the Major is already ducking back into the tent.</p><p>B Company is a ways away and mostly asleep.  One weary sentry, cranky as anything, insists on challenging Tom's purpose until one of his fellow soldiers takes pity on Tom and tells him what he needs to know.  </p><p>Tom's brother is billeted with another Lieutenant in a tiny little tent close to the Captain's quarters.  Tom does not bother with trying to remember the proper protocol; he just ducks his head inside the tent flap, flicks on his torch when he can't see a blasted thing, and hopes he doesn't wake up the other officer in the process.  </p><p>"Who's there?" his brother says immediately.  Joe sits up, clearly anticipating the worst; he cannot see Tom with the torch blinding him.  </p><p>"It's me," Tom says and clicks it off.  He enters the tent and lets the flap close.  "Sorry -- didn't mean to wake you--"</p><p>"Tom?"  Joe hears him coming and gropes about -- Tom walks right into his elbow.  It knocks the breath out of him.</p><p>He doesn't get a chance to get it back.  Joe stands and hauls him into an entirely undignified hug, something that makes Tom's bones creak in his chest.  And . . . it's funny, but there has never not been a time that a hug from his brother hasn't meant safety, and so--</p><p>Joe makes a slight "oomph" as Tom clings back fiercely.  The familiarity of this is overwhelming in its comfort and it chokes Tom right up.  Grief claws at his throat.</p><p>"Here now, what's all this?" Joe says, concerned.  He pats Tom's shoulder awkwardly as Tom doesn't let up in his grip and starts to shake again.  "C'mon Tom, I know you've missed me, but I wouldn't have thought it was <em> that </em> much--" </p><p>Tom laughs, surprised, and swats at his brother.  The laugh is good enough to snap him out of his strange mood enough to answer, or so Tom thinks: he opens his mouth to reply and shocks them both when he sobs instead.</p><p>"Right," Joe says after a second's pause, and pulls him in again.  "Let it out, and then we'll talk."</p><p>Miserable, Tom does just that.  He ought not think of how he got here, he'll be useless, but now he is with <em> Joe-- </em></p><p>Freed at last, the horror of those last moments in Écoust yawns before him like the ravine from the bunker.  In his mind, Tom sees the mess of Scho's face and feels the shove as Richards pushes him from behind -- hears the desperation in Scho's friend's voice as he curses and shoots the sentry before he, too, is killed--</p><p>--or maybe Tom died there, too?  <em> Did </em> he die again?  Did Tom die and come back to life all without falling?  <em> How did he get out of there when they did not-- </em></p><p>Tom finds he is weeping in earnest, face mashed into his brother's shoulder as Joe makes a soothing noise and rubs Tom's back.  Absurdly, Tom next remembers that he vomited up what was left of Richards's good bread in the ditch and Tom fucking cries <em> even fucking harder </em> about that.  He didn't even know the man and he is crying over him, and Tom hates this, hates that this is how he is behaving, but hates even more that Tom lost his bloody head and <em> left his friend Scho lying dead in the road behind him. </em></p><p>In the end, Tom never really gets a chance to talk anything out with Joe.  Joe eases him into the cot at some point so Tom can get off his feet and slump against him, but Tom does not remember anything past that because he falls asleep in between one hiccough and the next.</p><p>Tom wakes hours later.  He feels groggy and uncoordinated and cold; he is in Joe's cot, still, but now he is the only one.  The other cot is bare, neatly made up; the tent is empty.  </p><p>He sorts out his appearance as best he can and makes his way outside.  Tom looks around but cannot for the life of him seem to figure out what is happening or where he should go; the landscape around him is utterly unfamiliar and bustling with strange faces.</p><p>"Tom!" he hears, crisp in the morning chill.  Joe is by his side before Tom quite figures out where his voice is coming from and Tom gets his first good look at his brother in over half a year.</p><p>Joe has always been handsome.  Mum always said it and the girls in the village seemed to agree with her; Joe was never in want of admirers.  His Lieutenant's uniform is nicely cut and flatters his shoulders, certainly.  Now that Tom looks, though, there is an edge to it.  Joe's got lines around his eyes he hasn't had before and he has lost weight -- all the fat has been stripped off of him, it looks like.  Whatever privileges Lieutenants have with the commissary, Joe certainly has not been taking advantage of it.  </p><p>Still, Joe smiles with real pleasure at Tom and it chases the shadows from his expression for the time being.  "Hungry, are you?" his brother teases as he throws an arm about Tom's shoulders.  "I should have guessed.  I'll take you to the mess tent, how's that?"</p><p>Tom hasn't the energy to argue that he'd much rather just sit a while in quiet, the two of them.  "All right," he says instead.  He lets himself get steered along.</p><p>Mercifully, Joe is feeling talkative.  He apparently does not feel the need to ask Tom anything and so he chatters about everything under the sun -- probably everything he would have written to Tom in his next letter -- and Tom lets it wash over him.  If Tom doesn't think about it too hard, it's like they are both at home walking through the bustling market at the village centre.</p><p>There's a brief, low whistle that catches their attention.  Tom doesn't bother to look around when he feels Joe do it for them both, but he sure as hell pays attention when Joe stops in his tracks.  The arm he has got over Tom's shoulders tightens and Tom is already looking around to see what has so upset his brother before Joe deliberately relaxes it.</p><p>Calm as a summer afternoon, Lance Corporal William Schofield walks towards them both.  At his side, Corporal Benjamin Richards lazily waves his hand and smiles, sharp. </p><p>"Hullo, Blake," he says.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yesterday was the anniversary of the first time I saw <em>1917,</em> so here -- have this!  I wrote like 1k of this the day after I posted the first chapter, lost all enthusiasm for the next five days, picked up the threads of it on Sunday, and then blasted out roughly 3k literally tonight.  So . . . yeah!  --Chapter count updated to 4, which should fit the outline better; who knows when the next chapter will be up.</p><p>Absolute love to everyone who has read, kudos'd, and reviewed so far &lt;3  Knowing what you guys appreciate about each chapter helps me so much, you have no idea!</p>
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